Chapter-4: The Morning He Broke”

Early morning shattered the silence of the ruined room. The door trembled under violent bangs.

DHAAM! DHAAM! DHAAM!

"Zairen! Open the damn door!" a gruff voice growled from beyond the wood.

Zairen's eyes cracked open, still heavy with sleep. His voice rasped, dry as gravel. "Who the fuck dares disturb my sleep…"

He dragged himself to the door and swung it open. There stood the estate's steward—an older man with sunken eyes and a sneer carved into his weathered face.

"You little bastard," the steward hissed. "You want me to beat you for being late again?"

Zairen's gaze met his, cold—too cold. Something in those crimson eyes flickered, unnatural and wrong. The steward faltered for a heartbeat but shoved past, pride refusing to yield.

"The fuck you looking at, freak? Move!" He barged in, slamming a tray of food onto the cracked table. "Eat that garbage, and don't show your cursed face in the dining hall today."

Zairen glided silently to the table, eyeing the meal: moldy bread, greyish soup thick with rotting vegetables, greasy meat so sour it reeked of disease. The steward's lips twisted into a cruel smirk. "Oh, wait. One ingredient's missing."

He leaned over—p'tchk—and spat into the soup, laughing. "Hahahaha! There, now it's seasoned!"

Zairen stared at the soup. Unmoving. Silent. Too silent.

Then his eyes flicked to the fork beside the bowl.

As the steward turned to leave, still chuckling, Zairen's voice cut through the air, sharp as broken glass. "Hey."

The steward spun, snarling. "What now, yo—"

CHAK!

The fork plunged into his eye. "AHHHHHH!" he shrieked, stumbling back, clutching his face. "Y-you fucker! What have you—!"

CHAK!

The second eye.

Screams tore through the estate. Blood sprayed the wall like paint on canvas. Zairen stood silent, cold, wrenching the fork free with a wet squelch. Then he struck again—over, and over, and over.

SKRRRCH. CRK. SPLAT.

The skull cracked. The brain pulped. Eyeballs burst like grapes under the relentless assault. The steward's body convulsed, then stilled.

When maids reached the door, they screamed. One collapsed, senseless. The scene was horror: a shattered corpse, blood-soaked floor, and Zairen sitting calmly, splattered in gore, fork in hand.

He looked up, face unreadable. Then… smiled. "Ah. Got a little carried away."

He rose, brain matter clinging to his hair, dripping down his cheek like crimson tears. He stepped to the tray. "Fucker ruined my breakfast." He poured the soup—now laced with spit and blood—over the corpse like gravy, then bit into the moldy bread with bloodstained fingers. "Now this… this tastes better."

An hour later, two armored soldiers stormed in, bearing the estate's insignia: crossed swords over a black sun. Their faces twisted in disgust at the carnage.

"You've been summoned by the Lord of the Estate," one barked. "Cooperate, or we'll drag your corpse instead."

Zairen glanced at them, still chewing. "Relax, gentlemen. I'm coming." He walked between them, casual as a morning stroll. The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances. How could this quiet boy do such a thing? Was he always… this wrong?

They passed through the hall. Servants scattered like insects, some averting their eyes, others smirking—glad the steward was gone. The great doors swung open with a thunderous slam.

Inside sat a bloated man in silk, rings glinting on fat fingers. The Estate Lord. Zairen's uncle. His lips curled into a smirk as the man rose, fury dripping from every step.

"You… what have you done, Zairen?!" his uncle roared.

Zairen's smile widened. "Done? Hm… oh, you mean breakfast?"

CRACK!

The soldiers kicked his legs, forcing him to his knees. His forehead slammed against the cold marble floor. His uncle loomed closer, voice low, venomous.

"This time, boy, there'll be no mercy. No tears. No apologies. You're going to pay."

Zairen raised his head, bloodstained hair falling over his eyes. He laughed—softly at first, then louder, until the hall echoed with madness.

"Let's begin, then…"